


Darkness Drops Again

by stellardrift



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, Crossover, Gen, The Buffy Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-13 13:36:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1228363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellardrift/pseuds/stellardrift
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Roadhouse is a dilapidated old bar just off one of the many nameless exits between Omaha and Denver.  The bar’s a decent sized place, though certainly it’s seen better days.  It is safe at least and that was no small feat these days.  Faith likes to stop by whenever she’s in the area; grab a drink, catch a game of pool, loosen up a bit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Darkness Drops Again

**Author's Note:**

> written as part of [the buffy exchange](http://thebuffyexchange.tumblr.com/) for pyrrhused.

The Roadhouse is a dilapidated old bar just off one of the many nameless exits between Omaha and Denver. The bar’s a decent sized place, though certainly it’s seen better days. It is safe at least and that was no small feat these days. Faith likes to stop by whenever she’s in the area; grab a drink, catch a game of pool, loosen up a bit.

She parks her bike next to a rusted out pickup. If the lot out front is any indication, there’s quite a crowd inside tonight. The bar was a beacon for survivors: those already on the fringes of society or those lucky enough to be near someone like that when the shit hit the fan. That meant hunters, mostly, and some of the newly awakened slayers, magic users and the paranoid militant types

Ellen, the owner, knows a few different types of magic users personally, at least one Druid, who shores up the protections on the place from time to time. Something like electricity zings against her skin as she crosses over the edge of the spell and through the doorway. The magic surrounding the Roadhouse is thicker than anything Faith has ever encountered before. They have to be, of course, or it’d be torn apart in a moment by the infected.

The infected were pretty damn strong for a bunch of zombie like creatures. Fast, too. Ellen tells Faith that the infected were possessed by demons somehow, in a way that was transmissible by blood. It’s not easy to reconcile her image of the large, horned and scaly with the virus that turned people into the black eyed ghouls which she’d been battling the past six months but what with the million different hell dimensions in existence and whatnot, she guesses it’s not too much of a stretch.

Sometimes she had wonders what Giles knows about it and if he’s still alive. She hasn’t seen him or any of the others since Cleveland. It’s strange too, that he hadn’t warned her (no one had). After the communication infrastructure had failed, it wasn’t exactly easy to get a pinpoint on him. She knew Buffy was alive though. She had to be. If Buffy was gone, she would feel it.

The inside of the bar is dingy, thick with smoke and the insistent clamor of the jukebox. Faith finds a seat at the less crowded end of the bar. She catches the eye of the blond bartender, Jo, and gives her a nod. A few minutes later Faith has a drink in her hand and her day is looking to get a hell of a lot better.

A few moments later, above the din, a voice singles her out. It’s a guy, mid-thirties, wearing a baseball cap and flannel.

“What’s that?”

“Hunter,” he repeats the word, emphasizing each syllable. “Are you one?”

“Something like that.”

He smells like stagnant tobacco smoke and too many beers. His eyes linger too long on her body. She ignores it. “I have some information. Heard you’d be interested.”

She stares back at him. He looks away before continuing.

“Just got back from a supply run, met up with a buddy o’mine, just north of Sterling; said there’s a little blonde girl there, fighting infected. Killed a whole town of ‘em.”

She looks at him for a beat before answering. _A little blonde girl._

“Thanks, pal,” she turns back to her drink. It was a slayer, had to be. She hadn’t seen another slayer in months. Last one barely even knew who she was, let alone knew the score. _A little blonde girl_. This girl sounded like she had training (if she existed). She could know something. Suddenly, the drink in her hand seems less appealing. She sets it down.

“Hey, you really want to thank me?”

She steps off the bar stool and gives her full attention to the leering man before her. Some things don’t change. Some survival instinct must have kicked in because he shrinks back from her.   She pushes down that little satisfied feeling (because _blonde, slayer_ ) and forces herself to walk out of the bar without another word.

…

 

Faith catches up with the mystery girl just outside of Kansas city. She is drawn toward the sound of fighting and finds the small crowd of infected.   In the center, a petite blonde swings her body gracefully, knocking over two infected in one roundhouse kick. The blade in her hand is an extension of her body; her arm reaches out, like lightening, and a third falls. Yellow curls bounce against her sweat drenched back. She’s not Buffy.

 

“Need a hand?” Faith hops off her bike but doesn’t wait for an answer.   She knocks down the closest infected; a gangly man who’d been lunging toward the other woman. The blonde seems to give a small nod of ascension before turning back to the two infected closest to her.

Instinctively, they align themselves, back to back. The steel blade finds it target; the bone and cartilage crunches as she slides it on home. The infected aren’t people, not anymore. It’s just like doing a vamp, but messier. Working together, within a few moments they had finished off the last of the small group.

 

The other woman turns to her. She is out of breath and Faith could see now that she was covered in blood on her right shoulder and side. Could be from the fight. Faith watches her carefully, the other woman doesn’t seem hurt.

“Nice ride,” the blond girl gestures towards her bike. They make eye contact for a moment before she heads over to the bike, circling it. “So, you gonna offer me a ride, or what?”

Faith can’t help the almost twitch of a smile that flashes across her face.

…

By time they reach the small campsite, it’s nearly dark. And even though she’s used this hideaway before, something about it tonight makes her uneasy and restless. So she leaves the other woman; Meg, she had said her name into Faith’s ear, with her arms around Faith’s waist as they had raced across backcountry roads.

It’s a small outpost, a few one room cabins and a slightly larger main hall with a kitchen (semi stocked with non perishables, lucky day) and a short row of outhouses. She leaves Meg inside to get cleaned up and searches each building methodically and tries to lose herself in the rhythm. Yet, Faith can’t seem to shake the funny itch that has stayed with her since they took out the crowd of infected earlier.

She circles the outskirts of the campsite. And again, with wider arches each time, finds nothing. The campsite is nestled next to a small mountain lake, hours from the nearest town, (which was more of a gas station at a four way stoplight anyway). She goes back to the cabin they had set up camp in for the night.

When she opens the door, Meg is in the middle of tugging on a fresh shirt. Her back is turned to Faith, so she sees it, the big ugly red gash across her right shoulder. It’s at least a day old.

“How’d you get that?” Faith had slipped in quietly, but Meg doesn’t startle or turn around at the sound of her voice.

“Got cut.”

“Oh, that all,” Faith circles her, until she’s looking into the blonde’s face. It wasn’t a good idea to ride at night, but she has done it before. “It got pretty dirty back there.”

The other woman has a carefully blank look drawn onto her face. Her head tilts slightly to the side, “I’m not infected.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that line before,” Faith drawls, as if the conversation was boring her.

“I’m immune.”

“Interesting,” Faith says it like she meant it. “Haven’t heard that particular line before.”

Meg’s cheek twitches, a small movement. Faith forces herself not to reach for the dagger strapped to her hip. A beat or two passes. It feels infinite in the silence.

“So, you’re a slayer,” Meg breathes finally.

Faith narrows her eyes, “Thought _you_ were one.”

Meg laughs, a loud and disconcerting sound against the quiet of the previous moment. She tilts her head back and laughs and its all pearly white teeth and wrinkles in the corners of her mouth. She’s nearly gasping for breath when she stutters out, “No. _I’m_ not a slayer.”

Now, Faith understands that the suspicion creeping up her gut was not unfounded. Her heart rate picks up speed. Her hand drops to her side where her knife is strapped. The steel of the hilt is cool and reassuring in Faith’s grasp.

“Oh, c’mon,” Meg smiles at her, a grin that goes unnaturally far beyond her teeth. “I thought we were friends.”

“You’re not human,” Faith tenses, waiting for her moment. It had been a while since she had fought anything besides one of the infected and while they were strong and fast and incredibly desperate, in their own way, they were easy to kill.

“No, but neither are you,” Meg’s smile had fallen off her face now she wore a look that was much more calculating, dangerous. “Not completely.”

“That’s a lie,” Faith replies easily. They were circling each other now; Faith wants her own back to the door. There was no way this thing was getting between her and the only exit.

“That’s not what I heard,” Meg sing-songs the words. “I heard that slayers are made from demons. That practically makes us sisters.”

“So, you’re a demon, big deal,” Faith smirks at her and reaches her arm upwards as she cants forward, ready to strike but Meg deftly knocks the blow aside.

Faith brings her knee up hard, into Meg’s gut. Her body folds in half, for about two seconds before she’s back up as if she felt nothing. Faith doesn’t pause. She delivers a second blow that cracks across the other woman’s face.

But Meg only looks back up at her. She’s smiling in a way that sends a trill of fear down Faiths spine. And then she strikes at her chest, again and again. Faith parries the blows as quickly as they fall, at first. She steps back, out of range.   But the demon follows and lands a hard blow that knocks Faith to the ground, breathless.

Faith’s hold on her dagger slips and it clatters to the wooden floor alongside her. Pain shoots through her body as her head makes contact with the ground. She barely has time to get her arms up when Meg is on top of her and lands another blow to her face that Faith manages to only partially deflect.

Darkness threatens the edge of her vision, she pushes back at it. Fight, damn it. Her ears are still ringing as she brings up her knee in an attempt to turn but Meg is too quick. She’s pressed her knee into Faith’s hip and she has her hands wrapped around Faith’s windpipe. _Hell no_. Faith grabs at the hands around her neck but her movements are weak. She feels like she’s floating. _Fuck._ Meg is strong. She’s too strong. _No._

Her lungs burn.

Her arm drops. And brushes against cool steel. She grabs at the knife. It’s heavy. She drives the knife into the demon’s thigh. It doesn’t dislodge her attacker but the grip around Faith’s neck loosens, for a moment. She sucks in air and thrusts the other woman off of her, _finally_. She strikes with the knife again, stabbing the demon in the chest. It would be enough to kill any human or infected but Meg only pauses. “You’re a tough little shit,” she’s smirking.

Faith can’t reply; she’s still gasping for breath. The knife trembles in her hand. The key to her bike is still in the ignition. The door is only a few feet away. In between stands Meg.

She dives into a roll past the demon and jets it. Inhuman hands grasp at her shirt but she pulls away and keeps running. She doesn’t look back. Even when she’s sitting on the comforting warm leather seat, miles away and long after the blood on her cheek is crusted and dried in the wind.

She doesn’t look back.

 

_Fin._


End file.
